Building the Wall

Tales from the Corner of My Closet

It’s time to write again, and that can only mean one thing; I must abscond to the corner of my closet. I’m not fleeing the task of writing; I’m fleeing people. In a family of eight (plus two dogs) in the home, I’m a mere syllable or two from distraction.

Writing is necessarily a lonely pursuit, which explains its popularity among introverts. It’s usually not the pastime of social dynamos; that’s fine with me, though. My needlepoint chair, an old gate-leg table, and the spines of too many books are all the company I need when I’m processing thoughts. Surrounded by words and sequestered from voices, I can wander my mind in peace; and eventually, the path out begins to emerge.

Unfortunately, as the world gets noisier—and as I get older— the more I crave time in my closet hideout. Part office, part bunker, it’s a productive and protective retreat, a corner of sanity and inspiration. Our home has an actual office full of my favorite furnishings and art, but it’s here in my quiet closet that art comes to life.

I remember my teenage days, when I was happy to spend late nights in my room writing. I poured all my angst into a spiral notebook of long letters addressed to a future husband — a mythical and flawless human I’d somehow ginned up in my mind. The long-winded epistles never got a response, but the imaginary listening ear made a tireless, if nonexistent, audience for my writing.

Now that I’ve reached midlife, the introverted angst of adolescence has largely disappeared—plus, my real husband is a much warmer audience for my musings. I’m finally comfortable in my skin; I’m more comfortable with other people and their skin, too. Each of us eventually finds that we are wired with stubborn circuitry that is energized either with people or away from people, and I just happen to fall into the latter category.

On the downside, indulging the life of the mind brings a certain feeling of alienation, felt more acutely when out in the social landscape; maybe it’s the rust of too much time alone. People at cocktail gatherings, on sidelines at my kids’ games, or in a stadium of high school football fans—all stand as a line of tanks, an imposing and impenetrable wall of faces. On my worst days, their free-flowing and peppy conversation is a foreign language to me; on my good days, it’s an uncomfortable but rewarding slice of life, a reminder of how to be a human.

To my slight shame, I’ve avoided more events than I can count—socials, team parties, dinners, parent meetings, you name it. The thought of walking into any of these crowds, with the awkward search for the first few words, is often enough to keep me at home. I don't miss out on events that are required or truly meaningful, of course; and I enjoy being part of my children’s scenery. Nonetheless, many invitations end up on the chopping block, victims of already-drained social reserves.

Yet, if introversion has its social demerits, it also has some upsides. Cultivating the interior world makes fertile ground for sober-minded thought—and by extension, a thoughtful life. Reading, thinking, praying, writing—all spill over into lives that fall in the shadow of our influence.

Those of us happier away from the crowd may not win popularity contests, but often we make for natural builders and lookouts on our family’s protective walls. In the 4th century B.C., Nehemiah undertook the task of rebuilding the compromised walls of Jerusalem after Jews had returned from Babylonian exile. He knew that crumbling walls left the people of God vulnerable to attack.

As a mom, stepping out of the crowd noise has always been part of my wall-building effort—a protective posture for guarding the souls under my care. It could mean homeschooling for a while, which I did; or, it could mean saying no to some popular things, which I still do. It has always meant pulling away from the throng to protect us from its destructive push; for an introvert, this often comes more easily.

In my early years of motherhood, I filled many spiral notebooks with prayers—not idle teenage thoughts or wishful reveries. These weren’t stylistically pretty prayers, either; they were quick outpourings of both angst and joy, interspersed with bits of scripture. Baring my soul in quiet to our very present God brought far more clarity and peace than did my old letters to the imaginary husband.

Nowadays, even the introverts must battle for reflection; solitude, without ditching your phone, doesn’t guarantee silence. It’s hard to absorb the first things when your mind is devoured by lesser things—our common struggle in the age of digital interruption. My closet attempts to redress this with sacred space.

In coming weeks, I’m piled—or, I should say, blessed—with happy things to manage; we have two graduations, three kids’ sports, and a wedding. With that, my mind is as noisy as the culture I work to escape. Today, though, I’m sitting among my books, in the quiet, and in my needlepoint chair; I’m repairing the wall, as always, from the corner of my closet.